Page 46 of Me and Mr. Darcy

What if he really is Mr Darcy?

‘You’re shivering, would you like my scarf?’

I snap back to see him unknotting the white silk scarf from round his neck. I nod mutely. There has to be a rational explanation, there just has to, but I can’t think of one. And the part of me that’s in love with Mr Darcy and has spent the last year going on one shitty date after another doesn’t want there to be.

As he wordlessly leans close and tenderly places his scarf round my shoulders, I catch my breath. None of this makes sense, but what if sometimes things don’t have to make sense? That just because you can’t explain it doesn’t mean it’s not real. Like UFOs and ghosts and crop circles . . . and a character from a book come to life.

Emily, stop it. You’re being ridiculous. This is crazy. This guy’s obviously bananas and it’s rubbing off on you! Come on, girl, get a grip.

Suddenly I’m struck by an idea, and diving into my bag, I rummage around until I find what I’m looking for – my copy of Pride and Prejudice. Tugging it out, I brandish it at him in evidence. ‘Mr Darcy is a character in a book. This book,’ I say out loud as if to silence my insane thoughts.

He seems genuinely surprised. ‘I? Am in a book?’

‘Yes, by Jane Austen. It’s all about you – I mean, Mr Darcy,’ I correct myself quickly. God, even I’m at it now. ‘Look,’ I gasp exasperatedly. I thrust my copy of the book into his hands. Now some rational explanation will have to appear. Well, he can’t argue with this evidence, can he?

For a moment he sits very still and erect, the slim volume in his hands, a look of suspicion on his face.

‘This is a book?’

I nod feverishly.

‘How strange. There is no cover,’ he says, looking genuinely perplexed.

‘Haven’t you ever seen a paperback before?’ I retort impatiently.

And then a thought hits. In Mr Darcy’s day books would have been bound in leather, paperbacks didn’t even exist, which would explain—

Quickly I brush the thought aside. Like I said, it’s impossible.

Slowly he turns the book over, his thumb rubbing the cover, his brow furrowed, then cautiously he opens it and turns to the first page. I watch his eyes scanning the text. Totally absorbed, he flicks over a few more pages. He looks completely bewildered.

‘You are indeed right,’ he says measuredly after a few moments.

‘I know,’ I reply with a sense of satisfaction. But there’s something else: a stab of disappointment. He almost had me thinking it must be true, what with the outfit and the newspaper. OK, so it’s completely insane and impossible and a complete fantasy, but what girl wouldn’t want to meet the real Mr Darcy? I mean, can you imagine? That would have been pretty amazing.

He looks up at me, his face sombre. ‘I am in a book. As are my dear friends Mr Bingley and his sister . . .’ With the book laid open on his knee, he looks down again at the pages, as if deep in thought, and then, almost imperceptibly, I catch a faint smile appear on the corners of his mouth. ‘I have to admit I am most flattered that someone should write a book about me.’

Er, wait a moment, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

‘Thank you for showing me this. I feel honoured. It is quite a compliment, isn’t it?’ he continues, looking up at me. The pride is audible in his voice, and I have to say, he seems very pleased with himself. ‘Although it rather disproves your theory that I do not exist,’ he adds, his eyes twinkling. ‘Not only am I here in the flesh, but I am also here in black and white.’

Completely thrown, I open my mouth to say something, although I’m not quite sure what. I mean, is this guy simply crazy? Admittedly, he seems perfectly normal, apart from his clothes, and he is really attractive . . . God, that would be just my luck, wouldn’t it? I finally meet someone I’ve got real chemistry with and he turns out to be a total fruit-loop.

‘But there is one thing I don’t understand . . .’

I snap back to see my dark, handsome stranger flicking through the book, his smile having vanished. ‘Why are the rest of the pages empty?’

‘Empty?’ I repeat.

Oh, God, I was right. He is crazy.

‘Look.’

With my heart sinking, I watch him hold out the book and fan through the second half.

Typical, just typi—

Hang on a minute.